


nobody speaks a word you hear

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-01
Updated: 2009-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 21:37:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	nobody speaks a word you hear

>   
> ~ Your whole body has  
> a fullness or a gentleness destined for me.  
> 

Every morning, Morgana wakes up at dawn to the sound of voices coming from the practice grounds below her window, early enough that she can barely hold her eyes open. But she considers herself as disciplined as any of Arthur's knights, so she gets up, draws herself a bowl of water and washes her face thoroughly before she slides out of her nightgown and starts her routine.

Her sword is propped up against the rack, polished; she doesn't keep it in the armory, she can't afford it disappearing. It's not that she doesn't trust the people, but Arthur has a knack for figuring things out despite looking like a complete moron. She's known him since they were little kids; she's learned not to underestimate him. Or overestimate him, because Merlin, oh boy.

She concentrates on her sword work instead, whirling it in her hand a few times to make sure she hasn't forgotten the right grip, how tight, how firm she needs to hold so it doesn't hinder her mobility. Then she sets to work. She has a vivid imagination, especially after hours of sleep filled with nightmares. Her opponents are figures clothed in thick, black coats, slender girls and boys shooting magic out of their fingertips, monsters splitting the night air's silence with their shrieks.

She's covered in sweat by the time she's done. To end, she drops to the floor onto her arms to push up, strenghtening the muscles, and then her stomach, because no matter how hard she tries, it's always a little bit too soft, there's always this little bit of curve around her hips that she can't train off. She's not sure she wants it gone, because it makes her gowns curl lovingly about her body, and Gwen likes to put her hands there, thumbs stroking over the flesh.

>   
> When I move my hand up  
> I find in each place a dove  
> that was seeking me, as  
> if they had, love, made you of clay  
> for my own potter's hands.

Morgana's had a chambermaid draw her bath already when Gwen arrives. She's naked, and Gwen averts her eyes as she's supposed to but shouldn't. The sweat's no longer pearling down her chest and back and she hates the sensation of it drying on her skin, the bout of impatience that comes with it.

"Come," she invites, holding out her hand. "You look tired."

Gwen looks up at her, blinks. "My lady -"

"Not that," Morgana interrupts. She knows what's appropriate and what's not, has been taught from the day she arrived in Camelot by the pages and tutors and the governess she's had, has been taught which dress to wear to which occasion, how to clap her hands, how to smile at people who're almost equal, and at those who're so far beneath her she should pay attention not to step on their heads. "It's Morgana," she corrects gently. Gwen is none of those. There are no rules, just them.

"Yes," Gwen says. Her eyes shine a little brighter.

"Come, I'm getting cold," Morgana offers again. Then tilts her head. "Unless you have other work?" It's an out, one that she always gives, one that Gwen knows she can accept without consequences, and has before.

But now this morning, Morgana can see it in the little slump of her shoulders. This morning, it's Gwen who needs a tender touch, a little bit of care, some gentleness. It's Gwen who needs comfort. They've been together for almost ten years now. Morgana doesn't pride herself on too much empathy, but with Gwen, she always knows. Always.

Gwen gives in. She isn't restless, not nervous, because they've done this before, a hundred, a thousand times. Everything loses its scare when it's been experienced often enough, everything becomes habit. Except this is not habit, and never will be, because one day, Morgana knows, Gwen will say 'no' and it will be no forever, so she tries to enjoy it as long as it lasts, every second of it, every second they're not lady and maid.

Gwen drops her dress to the floor, picks it up to fold it neatly. She picks up Morgana's as well, from before her feet, and Morgana sinks to her knees beside her. She can feel Gwen's chest rise and fall under her hand when she touches Gwen's collarbone, and then the way Gwen bites her lip when she touches her chin, her cheek. Gwen smiles into the cup of her hand, eyes warm. "I'll just put these away, all right?"

"Yes," Morgana says. "The water's still hot. Don't take long."

The water is indeed still scalding when she climbs into the basin, sloshing about, heating her up, making her burn. She loves the heat; it makes her feel alive, and she loves the feeling of the water as it cools, as it gets more comfortable, because she hopes that's how life is going to turn out.

Then Gwen's back, standing naked before the basin, looking down at her. Morgana can see Gwen's gaze wander over her lips, down to her breasts, over her stomach to the curls between her legs. Gwen's beautiful herself, all dark skin and huge eyes, her wide hips and full breasts. Her hand is curled into a little fist by her navel. Then she gives herself a kick, a tremble goes through her body, relaxing her shoulders, and she slides into the water before Morgana, leaning back with a sigh.

"You look tired," Morgana repeats and puts her arm around her, pulling her against her own body, between her legs. The basin is big enough for the both of them, though they've grown since they first did this. It feels small, though, just small enough that it feels like they have to be pressed together to fit. Gwen's head is heavy on Morgana's shoulder, and it tells Morgana everything she needs to know about her own feelings, that she couldn't care less about the discomfort.

"I've been dreaming," Gwen admits.

The words make Morgan's heart skip a beat. "What are you dreaming about?"

"My father," Gwen says. "He - I didn't see - I don't know. I still don't know if he hurt..." she falls silent.

"Oh." Morgana caresses her stomach. "I'm so sorry, Gwen. I wish I could have been there to stop it, to - I wish - I wish Uther wasn't such a -"

"No, don't talk like that, not about the man who's almost your father."

"He's not my father."

"He sees you as his daughter. That's all that matters." Gwen turns to look into her eyes. "I know you lost yours early, but at least, you still have him. Don't throw that away. You love him."

Morgana's gaze softens. "I love you."

Gwen blushes. "Don't say that."

"I can say whatever I want," Morgana says and raises her chin.

"Yes, you can."

"And you may always feel free to challenge what I say."

Gwen turns her head a second time and her eyes are laughing. "Thank you, my lady."

It makes Morgana feel a thousand times better that she's laughing again, even if it's only inside, even if she hasn't heard the bright sound of Gwen's voice laughing aloud in far too long. It'll come back. It will take some time - maybe a year, or maybe five, but Morgana can wait. She's patient when it comes to Gwen, more patient than she has been with anyone before; she was a demanding brat with her father, a challenging, maybe too stubborn youth for Uther, a fiercely competitive sibling to Arthur.

"You make me good," she whispers into Gwen's hair. "You're the only one I'm good for of my own free will."

"You're not a bad person," Gwen protests.

"You don't know how I am when you're not around."

"People love you," Gwen says. "I've seen you around others when you think I'm not looking."

"I always know when you're there."

Gwen grasps her hand and twines their fingers. She doesn't say another word, just breathes.

The water's warm now, no longer hot, and Morgana kisses her hair, pulled back and to the top of her head, and pulls out the bit of string holding it together with her free hand lets it cascade. It's a little coarse, curly, heavy against her face. Morgana loves how it smells like a breeze of fresh air. She seeks Gwen's neck, licks a little trail down the curve, and Gwen's breathing grows quicker.

"If you give me my hand back," Morgana says, "I'll show you heaven."

"This is heaven," Gwen smiles. "To lie in scented water, with you at my back, holding me safe."

"You're always a queen around me," Morgana promises.

"I know. That's what makes me feel safe." She gives Morgana her hand back, and trails a thumb across the back before Morgana slides her fingers over her stomach, dipping one into her navel.

"Oh," Gwen says.

Morgana kisses her jaw. Her left hand climbs to caress Gwen's nipple, rubbing over it while her right slips between Gwen's legs, tips of her fingers over her clit. Gwen gasps. Her hips rock up, into Morgana's hand, and Morgana presses harder, then eases off.

"No, don't, I -"

Morgana catches her mouth in a kiss; it's not completely comfortable, she has to stretch her neck, but she deals, covers Gwen's lips with her own, tastes the scent of roses that's in the bath and Gwen's tongue, sliding out to meet hers, touching them together as Morgana presses her fingers over her clit again.

"Want you," she mumbles into the kiss. "Want to feel you shudder against me."

"Please."

Her fingers slip down, and then she pushes one finger in, and the angle's a little strange, but not so much, and Gwen's hot and wet around her, muscles clenching as she bites Morgana's lip.

"I need -" she gasps, and stutters to a halt when Morgana pulls her finger out, sighing with loss, then another gasps, this time of pleasure and a little pain when a second finger enters too quickly alongside the first. She's wetter now, still so tight - she's never had this, before Morgana, and not after, always just her.

Morgana likes to tell herself this. She can't know for sure, can't know if maybe Merlin isn't quite so in love with Arthur that he does see Gwen, can't know if Arthur himself hasn't asked her, sweet, beautiful Gwen – she images she would know, that she'd see the difference, that the whole court would, but the truth is, she might never know

She has this, and this is hers, and it must be enough, hearing Gwen inhale as she rocks her fingers back and forth, curving them inside her to find that one spot that'll make her moan loudly.

Her thumb flickers over Gwen's clit with every push of her fingers, and Gwen's back is a little sweaty against her own breasts and she feels herself grow heated all over with every other sound, every tilt of Gwen's hips towards her hand, begging with her whole body to give her more, go in deeper, push her over the edge. The water's rolling around them, cool now, tepid at best.

Gwen's hand finds hers, grabs it to press down harder, more forceful, leads her hand into a rhythm she likes and she throws her head back, into another kiss, her body shuddering as she comes. Morgana imagines using her tongue, pressing it against Gwen's folds as her toes curl, then inside, alongside her fingers and feels herself grow desperate. Later, she tells herself, later, when they're on the bed.

Later turns into one minute, because Gwen climbs to her feet shakily, breathlessly, laughing, a little bit out loud, just a tiny sound, turning Morgana's heart in her chest with happiness, and pulls her along to fall onto the freshly-made bed to spoil it all over again.

Nobody asks who's going to be changing the sheets. Morgana knows that it won't be Gwen.

~

> Your knees, your breasts,  
> your waist  
> are missing parts of me like the hollow  
> of a thirsty earth  
> from which they broke off  
> a form,  
> and together  
> we are complete like a single river,  
> like a single grain of sand.
> 
> ** **The Potter - Pablo Neruda**  
> 

_~~ written in March 2009_


End file.
